American Science Fiction

by Gary K. Wolfe

  June 30—I’ve stopped wandering the streets now that I have Fay. I’ve given her a key to my place. She kids me about my locking the door, and I kid her about the mess her place is in. She’s warned me not to try to change her. Her husband divorced her five years ago because she couldn’t be bothered about picking things up and taking care of her home.

  That’s the way she is about most things that seem unimportant to her. She just can’t or won’t bother. The other day I discovered a stack of parking tickets in a corner behind a chair—there must have been forty or fifty of them. When she came in with the beer, I asked her why she was collecting them.

  “Those!” she laughed. “As soon as my ex-husband sends me my goddamned check, I’ve got to pay some of them. You have no idea how bad I feel about those tickets. I keep them behind that chair because otherwise I get an attack of guilt feelings every time I see them. But what is a girl supposed to do? Everywhere I go they’ve got signs all over the place—don’t park here! don’t park there!—I just can’t be bothered stopping to read a sign every time I want to get out of the car.”

  So I’ve promised I won’t try to change her. She’s exciting to be with. A great sense of humor. But most of all she’s a free and independent spirit. The only thing that may become wearing after a while is her craze for dancing. We’ve been out every night this week until two or three in the morning. I don’t have that much energy left.

  It’s not love—but she’s important to me. I find myself listening for her footsteps down the hallway whenever she’s been out.

  Charlie has stopped watching us.

  July 5—I dedicated my first piano concerto to Fay. She was excited by the idea of having something dedicated to her, but I don’t think she really liked it. Just goes to show that you can’t have everything you want in one woman. One more argument for polygamy.

  The important thing is that Fay is bright and good-hearted. I learned today why she ran out of money so early this month. The week before she met me, she had befriended a girl she’d met at the Stardust Ballroom. When the girl told Fay she had no family in the city, was broke, and had no place to sleep, Fay invited her to move in. Two days later the girl found the two hundred and thirty-two dollars that Fay kept in her dresser drawer, and disappeared with the money. Fay hadn’t reported it to the police—and as it turned out, she didn’t even know the girl’s last name.

  “What good would it do to notify the police?” she wanted to know. “I mean this poor bitch must have needed the money pretty badly to do it. I’m not going to ruin her life over a few hundred bucks. I’m not rich or anything, but I’m not going after her skin—if you know what I mean.”

  I knew what she meant.

  I have never met anyone as open and trusting as Fay is. She’s what I need most of all right now. I’ve been starved for simple human contact.

  July 8—Not much time for work—between the nightly club-hopping and the morning hangovers. It was only with aspirin and something Fay concocted for me that I was able to finish my linguistic analysis of Urdu verb forms and send the paper to the International Linguistics Bulletin. It will send the linguists back to India with their tape recorders, because it undermines the critical superstructure of their methodology.

  I can’t help but admire the structural linguists who have carved out for themselves a linguistic discipline based on the deterioration of written communication. Another case of men devoting their lives to studying more and more about less and less—filling volumes and libraries with the subtle linguistic analysis of the grunt. Nothing wrong with that, but it should not be used as an excuse to destroy the stability of language.

  Alice called today to find out when I am coming back to work at the lab. I told her I wanted to finish the projects I had started, and that I was hoping to get permission from the Welberg Foundation for my own special study. She’s right though—I’ve got to take time into consideration.

  Fay still wants to go out dancing all the time. Last night started out with us drinking and dancing at the White Horse Club, and from there to Benny’s Hideaway, and then on to the Pink Slipper . . . and after that I don’t remember many of the places, but we danced until I was ready to drop. My tolerance for liquor must have increased because I was pretty far gone before Charlie made his appearance. I can only recall him doing a silly tap dance on the stage of the Allakazam Club. He got a great hand before the manager threw us out, and Fay said everyone thought I was a wonderful comedian and everyone liked my moron act.

  What the hell happened then? I know I strained my back. I thought it was from all the dancing, but Fay says I fell off the goddamned couch.

  Algernon’s behavior is becoming erratic again. Minnie seems to be afraid of him.

  July 9—A terrible thing happened today. Algernon bit Fay. I had warned her against playing with him, but she always liked to feed him. Usually when she came into his room, he’d perk up and run to her. Today it was different. He was at the far side, curled up into a white puff. When she put her hand in through the top trap door, he cringed and forced himself back into the corner. She tried to coax him, by opening the barrier to the maze, and before I could tell her to leave him alone, she made the mistake of trying to pick him up. He bit her thumb. Then he glared at both of us and scurried back into the maze.

  We found Minnie at the other end in the reward box. She was bleeding from a gash in her chest, but she was alive. As I reached in to take her out Algernon came into the reward box and snapped at me. His teeth caught my sleeve and he hung on until I shook him loose.

  He calmed down after that. I observed him for more than an hour afterward. He seems listless and confused, and though he still learns new problems without external rewards, his performance is peculiar. Instead of the careful, determined movements down the maze corridors, his actions are rushed and out of control. Time and again he turns a corner too quickly and crashes into a barrier. There is a strange sense of urgency in his behavior.

  I hesitate to make a snap judgment. It could be many things. But now I’ve got to get him back to the lab. Whether or not I hear from the Foundation about my special grant, I’m going to call Nemur in the morning.

  PROGRESS REPORT 15

  July 12—Nemur, Strauss, Burt, and a few of the others on the project were waiting for me in the psych office. They tried to make me feel welcome, but I could see how anxious Burt was to take Algernon, and I turned him over. No one said anything, but I knew that Nemur would not soon forgive me for going over his head and getting in touch with the Foundation. But it had been necessary. Before I returned to Beekman, I had to be assured they would permit me to begin an independent study of the project. Too much time would be wasted if I had to account to Nemur for everything I did.

  He had been informed of the Foundation’s decision, and my reception was a cold and formal one. He held out his hand, but there was no smile on his face. “Charlie,” he said, “we’re all glad you’re back and going to work with us. Jayson called and told me the Foundation was putting you to work on the project. This staff and the lab are at your disposal. The computer center has assured us that your work will have priority—and of course if I can help in any way . . .”

  He was doing his utmost to be cordial, but I could see by his face that he was skeptical. After all, what experience did I have with experimental psychology? What did I know about the techniques that he had spent so many years developing? Well, as I say, he appeared cordial, and willing to suspend judgment. There isn’t much else he can do now. If I don’t come up with an explanation for Algernon’s behavior, all of his work goes down the drain, but if I solve the problem I bring in the whole crew with me.

  I went into the lab where Burt was watching Algernon in one of the multiple problem boxes. He sighed and shook his head. “He’s forgotten a lot. Most of his complex responses seem to have been wiped out. He’s solving problems on a much more primitive level than I would have
expected.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “Well, in the past he was able to figure out simple patterns—in that blind-door run, for example: every other door, every third door, red doors only, or the green doors only—but now he’s been through that run three times and he’s still using trial and error.”

  “Could it be because he was away from the lab for so long?”

  “Could be. We’ll let him get used to things again and see how he works out tomorrow.”

  I had been in the lab many times before this, but now I was here to learn everything it had to offer. I had to absorb procedures in a few days that the others had taken years to learn. Burt and I spent four hours going through the lab section by section, as I tried to familiarize myself with the total picture. When we were all through I noticed one door we had not looked into.

  “What’s in there?”

  “The freeze and the incinerator.” He pushed open the heavy door and turned on the light. “We freeze our specimens before we dispose of them in the incinerator. It helps cut down the odors if we control decomposition.” He turned to leave, but I stood there for a moment.

  “Not Algernon,” I said. “Look . . . if and . . . when . . . I mean I don’t want him dumped in there. Give him to me. I’ll take care of him myself.” He didn’t laugh. He just nodded. Nemur had told him that from now on I could have anything I wanted.

  Time was the barrier. If I was going to find out the answers for myself I had to get to work immediately. I got lists of books from Burt, and notes from Strauss and Nemur. Then, on the way out, I got a strange notion.

  “Tell me,” I asked Nemur, “I just got a look at your incinerator for disposing of experimental animals. What plans have been made for me?”

  My question stunned him. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sure that from the beginning you planned for all exigencies. So what happens to me?”

  When he was silent I insisted: “I have a right to know everything that pertains to the experiment, and that includes my future.”

  “No reason why you shouldn’t know.” He paused and lit an already lit cigarette. “You understand, of course, that from the beginning we had the highest hopes of permanence, and we still do . . . we definitely do—”

  “I’m sure of that,” I said.

  “Of course, taking you on in this experiment was a serious responsibility. I don’t know how much you remember or how much you’ve pieced together about things in the beginning of the project, but we tried to make it clear to you that there was a strong chance it might be only temporary.”

  “I had that written down in my progress reports, at the time,” I agreed, “though I didn’t understand at the time what you meant by it. But that’s beside the point because I’m aware of it now.”

  “Well, we decided to risk it with you,” he went on, “because we felt there was very little chance of doing you any serious harm, and we were sure there was a great chance of doing you some good.”

  “You don’t have to justify that.”

  “But you realize we had to get permission from someone in your immediate family. You were incompetent to agree to this yourself.”

  “I know all about that. You’re talking about my sister, Norma. I read about it in the papers. From what I remember of her, I imagine she’d have given you approval for my execution.”

  He raised his eyebrows, but let it pass. “Well, as we told her, in the event that the experiment failed, we couldn’t send you back to the bakery or to that room where you came from.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, you might not be the same. Surgery and injections of hormones might have had effects not immediately evident. Experiences since the operation might have left their mark on you. I mean, possibly emotional disturbances to complicate the retardation; you couldn’t possibly be the same kind of person—”

  “That’s great. As if one cross weren’t enough to bear.”

  “And for another thing, there’s no way of knowing if you would go back to the same mental level. There might be regression to an even more primitive level of functioning.”

  He was letting me have the worst of it—getting the weight off his mind. “I might as well know everything,” I said, “while I’m still in a position to have some say about it. What plans have you made for me?”

  He shrugged. “The Foundation has arranged to send you to the Warren State Home and Training School.”

  “What the hell!”

  “Part of the agreement with your sister was that all the home’s fees would be assumed by the Foundation, and you would receive a regular monthly income to be used for your personal needs for the rest of your life.”

  “But why there? I was always able to manage on my own on the outside, even when they committed me there, after Uncle Herman died. Donner was able to get me out right away, to work and live on the outside. Why do I have to go back?”

  “If you can take care of yourself on the outside, you won’t have to stay in Warren. The less severe cases are permitted to live off the grounds. But we had to make provision for you—just in case.”

  He was right. There was nothing for me to complain about. They had thought of everything. Warren was the logical place—the deep freeze where I could be put away for the rest of my days.

  “At least it’s not the incinerator,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. A private joke.” Then I thought of something. “Tell me, is it possible to visit Warren, I mean go through the place and look it over as a visitor?”

  “Yes, I think they have people coming down all the time—regular tours through the home as a kind of public relations thing. But why?”

  “Because I want to see. I’ve got to know what’s going to happen while I’m still enough in control to be able to do something about it. See if you can arrange it—as soon as possible.”

  I could see he was upset about the idea of my visiting Warren. As if I were ordering my coffin to sit in before I died. But then, I can’t blame him because he doesn’t realize that finding out who I really am—the meaning of my total existence involves knowing the possibilities of my future as well as my past, where I’m going as well as where I’ve been. Although we know the end of the maze holds death (and it is something I have not always known—not long ago the adolescent in me thought death could happen only to other people), I see now that the path I choose through that maze makes me what I am. I am not only a thing, but also a way of being—one of many ways—and knowing the paths I have followed and the ones left to take will help me understand what I am becoming.

  That evening and for the next few days I immersed myself in psychology texts: clinical, personality, psychometrics, learning, experimental psychology, animal psychology, physiological psychology, behaviorist, gestalt, analytical, functional, dynamic, organismic, and all the rest of the ancient and modern factions, schools, and systems of thought. The depressing thing is that so many of the ideas on which our psychologists base their beliefs about human intelligence, memory, and learning are all wishful thinking.

  Fay wants to come down and visit the lab, but I’ve told her not to. All I need now is for Alice and Fay to run into each other. I’ve enough to worry about without that.

  PROGRESS REPORT 16

  July 14—It was a bad day to go out to Warren—gray and drizzly—and that may account for the depression that grips me when I think about it. Or perhaps I’m kidding myself and it was the idea of possibly being sent there that bothered me. I borrowed Burt’s car. Alice wanted to come along, but I had to see it alone. I didn’t tell Fay I was going.

  It was an hour-and-a-half drive out to the farmland community of Warren, Long Island, and I had no trouble finding the place: a sprawling gray estate revealed to the world only by an entrance of two concrete pillars flanking a narrow side-road and a well-po
lished brass plate with the name Warren State Home and Training School.

  The roadside sign said 15 MPH, so I drove slowly past the blocks of buildings looking for the administrative offices.

  A tractor came across the meadow in my direction, and in addition to the man at the wheel there were two others hanging on the rear. I stuck out my head and called: “Can you tell me where Mr. Winslow’s office is?”

  The driver stopped the tractor and pointed to the left and ahead. “Main hospital. Turn left and bear to your right.”

  I couldn’t help noticing the staring young man riding at the rear of the tractor, hanging on to a handrail. He was unshaven, and there was the trace of an empty smile. He had on a sailor’s hat with the brim pulled down childishly to shield his eyes, although there was no sun out. I caught his glance for a moment—his eyes wide, inquiring—but I had to look away. When the tractor started forward again, I could see in the rear view mirror that he was looking after me, curiously. It upset me . . . because he reminded me of Charlie.

  I was startled to find the head psychologist so young, a tall, lean man with a tired look on his face. But his steady blue eyes suggested a strength behind the youthful expression.

  He drove me around the grounds in his own car, and pointed out the recreation hall, hospital, school, administrative offices, and the two-story brick buildings he called cottages where the patients lived.

  “I didn’t notice a fence around Warren,” I said.